Dark Blue
by Pale Treasures
Summary: Griet remembers Vermeer and comes to terms with a few important truths. oneshot


**A/N.: **_English is not my first language and I haven't written in English in a long time, so I apologize for any mistakes. I hope you like the story. :)_

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything about GWaPE. Don't sue.

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**Dark Blue**

I hadn't thought about him in a long time.

I wasn't sure how long, exactly; work and being a mother kept me constantly occupied, blurred my days, and, to speak truthfully, I made an effort not to think too. It was easier that way. More than a year had passed since his death, and since I could not help remembering, I thought it best not to linger unnecessarily on it. For a time, I succeeded. For a time, I could ignore all that was missing. But tonight, sleep did not come, and I lay wide awake in bed, staring at the thick darkness, with Pieter's limp arm draped around my waist. I allowed him to touch me now, but it was a listless permission; he was my husband, and it was his right to do it. Still, I did not care for it.

I could envision everything I would see and do if I paced about the house; I had been through this before. Insomnia, when I was too tired after a day's work and, incongruously, sleep failed to claim me, a close, restless watch when one of the children was sick. I would slip out of bed quietly, so as not to disturb Pieter; sometimes, he slept heavily, in others the smallest stirring could awake him. I would wind my way through the house in the darkness, used to the gloom after learning to forgo candles in order not to awake anyone. I would stop by the boys' room, and I would not need light to know what I would see. Sharing the same bed, long-limbed like their father, with golden hair and tousled curls, they snored quietly, open-mouthed. I would feel like smiling, although I wouldn't. I would hold back a caress for fear of disturbing their sleep and would slip away as unnoticed as I'd come. I would sit, fully alone with my thoughts, for it was only when everyone else was asleep that I could do so, and would wait for sleep or daybreak. In such moments I felt more like myself than ever, remembered with vivid clarity what I had been and what I had lived. The memories seemed to have taken place only a few days ago, as opposed to years. I could almost believe that, and I felt comforted by the lie.

He was on my mind tonight. Perhaps he had been all day, and the strength of the recollection had been the one responsible for keeping me from falling asleep. There was nothing to keep him at bay; no children to look after, no work to do, nothing to tend to. He would not be ignored. And I did not wish to ignore him. I missed having the time and the peace to indulge in the memory of him. I remembered him as I'd last left him, though he had known illness and age in my absence. In my mind, he had not changed. I feared trying to imagine what he looked like afterwards; I was afraid he'd lost something of who he was, that the soul which had poured itself into his paintings and fascinated me so would no longer be recognisable, or at all alive.

Remembering that he was dead, now that the shock had gone, pained me more than it had when I had first heard the news. It seemed impossible still to believe that he was no longer on this earth, a few streets away; in spite of the distance, I had always comforted myself with the thought that I could still see him, one day, that he had disappeared from my life but perhaps not forever. With his death, all wishful thinking was forced to die with him. And now that I stopped to think about it, I realised that I felt strangely naked, like the essence of my soul, the weight my thoughts and beliefs gave me, had been sucked away and there was nothing left. Only an empty, thin shell, that the faintest gust of wind could blow away.

He had not thought about me, I knew, as he let me go, he had not cared. I wondered if he had given me the smallest amount of thought, if he had allowed himself to miss my presence, after I left. It was a foolish hope I found myself still cradling to my chest, still lovingly cherishing. Because his loss was unbearable, and it was only now that I gave myself permission to think it, to admit it to myself. I could not endure the fact that I would never see him again; that we would never have the opportunity to make things right. I could not stomach knowing that his family still gave me sideway glances, hurt and bewildered and vindictive, as though they still blamed me for everything that had gone wrong in their house. It was beyond me to accept it all, to summon that strength.

My feelings for him had not died. How strange, what a start it gave me, to finally say it to myself, word for word, the truth I had buried for so long, but which had been so transparent. I walked towards the window, staring at the large, brilliant moon outside, glowing so white and vivid it hurt my eyes. But no; not only white. If I looked closely, properly, I would see shades of grey, purple, blue...

My throat tightened as I stared and remembered the lessons he had taught me. The way his gaze had burned, seared through me to see what no one else had ever seen, had ever been capable of seeing. He had seen it, and he had not cared. But it was still his. If I could choose, I would still give it to him.

How could the world no longer hold his presence? How could the colours go unseen? How could the night still blanket the city and the sun rise every day without him? A dull, throbbing ache tore at my chest, holding all the tears I would never shed. The coins I had made from selling his wife's pearl earrings still rested under the mattress, unbeknownst to Pieter and my sons. I suddenly wanted to hold them in my hands, although it was impossible. Pieter slept over the memory of the man he had so resented.

Even with nothing left but memories of him, I still felt ill at ease, not knowing quite what to do. For how would a maid think of her master, even sharing what we had shared, even cherishing the feelings I did? How could a maid daydream about her master, what thoughts should she entertain? It was unseemly. Even now I could not do it. I did not know how to imagine my life if I had spent it by his side, not as his wife, not as a great lady, but simply as myself, the Griet he knew, the Griet he wanted and cared about. I dared not go further, even though the thoughts that made my face burn flitted past my mind either way.

There was nothing, nothing left; my flesh had hardened and my eyes had ceased being so open, so clear. I was forced to become a new person and I gave people what they wanted. Perhaps he would not care for this new me. For someone who had deeply buried all he had given me and taught me, all that reminded them of him, who went through life trying to forget as best they can. Would he guess my secrets, and would he find them valuable, a redeeming quality? Could he decide that they still made me worthwhile?

Only my secrets, the memories, kept me alive. No one would know. My family preferred to forget I had ever been a maid, _his_ maid. It was as though it was too shameful an event to openly discuss. My children knew nothing of it. I would indulge them; I would keep it a secret. But there was much they would never be able to tear from me. Their silent disapproval, their odd looks, would not make me regret the time I had spent with him, everything I had done for him. They would not erase this feeling that went beyond having a roof over my head and work and an indulgent husband. They would never understand the liberation and ecstasy the memories could still give me, or the taste of the tears I kept locked within when I thought of him.

It could not be helped; he would not be forgotten. He could not go unloved. As long as I am alive, I thought suddenly, staring up at the shimmering moon, I would keep him alive within, I would honour everything he had been. Every moment where we had crossed paths. In spite of the pain; in spite of the abruptness of our separation. For how could a heart forget another that had understood it? How could a soul overlook a fellow soul that had cherished it, however silently, however incomprehensibly? Perhaps he had known me well enough to know I would do so. Perhaps he had closed his eyes to life on this earth with regret in his heart; regret I would readily forgive, if only he were still alive. If only he would come back. A silly dream; it was as though I had acquired no wisdom at all.

I could never say aloud that it still hurt more than anyone could imagine, almost more than I could bear. I could never say that a piece of me had followed him to the grave and would never return to its proper place. I could not speak; I could never say it to anyone. And I did not want to. Sharing my feelings would sully the moments God had seen fit to give us. I would simply remember, allow his memory to thrive in my soul, come what may. I locked eyes with the moon and made that promise. Inside me, he would still live on. Perhaps that was all I needed, after all.


End file.
